


The Halls of Mandos

by Esthree



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7557337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esthree/pseuds/Esthree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The original prompt was "Let Dwalin bring Thorin back from the Halls of Mandos no matter how." I'm afraid the author of the prompt waited formore angst and romance, but I just couldn't help writing this )</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Halls of Mandos

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Saetha as always! Don't know what I'd do without you!
> 
> Actually this fic wasn't meant for Dworin week, but since I'd failed to post it ealier, here it is ;P

 

  
There was thick, whitish fog swirling between the giant grey stone pillars of the Halls of Mandos, obscuring the entrances. It was rising up slowly before disappearing into the impossible height overhead. Fëar of those who had left the world of living, were moving soundlessly from one hall to another in the solemn silence that reigned in the place.

The Lord of Mandos, Námo was hovering under the gloomy vaults in the form of a disembodied spirit not visible to the eye of any mortal being. He was busy contemplating the forthcoming future of the world when a sudden sound from the Main Gates attracted his attention. It was like somebody banging a piece of metal against the stone. Then he heard steps. Heavy and confident, they came closer and closer, resonating from the stone floor until one of Aulë’s race stepped from under the grand portal’s arc. If one might judge by his half-bald head and fiercely bristled beard, the intruder was male, though Námo wouldn’t bet on it – one could never be sure where Aulë was considered.

Námo remembered it perfectly well - the day when the life time measured for the first childern of Aulë had come to an end and the puzzled Smith, well-known among fellow Valar for his habit to act without thinking, showed up at his Halls to intercede for his creations.

“You used to admit every race in your Halls: elves, human beings and these strange little creatures… halflings.”

“Humans and hobbits do not stay in here for long, they have their own afterlife outside of Mandos. And elven fëar come here at Eru’s will. Dwarves were never planned for.”

“But, don’t you feel sorry for them?” Aulë had scratched his head and looked helplessly at Námo.”They are living things after all. I mean they are no more, but still…”

“You created them, it’s up to you to arrange their fate.”

“Listen, Námo!” Aulë’s face lit up. “What if you give them one or two halls of yours, and my people will do the rest, you have nothing to worry about. What’d you say?”

Námo had given in to Aulë’s imploring look, presented the dwarves with separate Halls for themselves and what of it? In less than two centuries he did regret his kindness. It turned out that dwarves in their afterlives were nothing like the fleshless elven fëar and were not so different from their living entities. In the end there were the joyful shrieking of violins, rollicking whine of flutes and deafening drum-beat accompanying the dissonant chorus of loud dwarvish voices oozing through the thick stone walls. On top of it there was constant hammering and the large furnaces which were radiating impossible heat. Námo had been unable to take it anymore and had called Aulë.

“When will this chaos stop at last?” Námo turned his suffering gaze to the origin of his misfortunes.

“Do you want the dwarves not to sing?” Aulë seemed surprised.

“Can’t they do it while being sober?”

“Do you want the dwarves not to drink?” Aulë seemed even more amazed.

At the same moment there was the sound of an explosion followed by the roaring of hundreds of voices.  
“Can you spare me _this_ at least?!” Námo almost lost his patience.

“Do you want the dwarves not to work?” Aulë seemed completely dumbfounded, and Námo gave up. He surrounded the Halls of the Dwarves by an impenetrable veil that didn’t let through any light, sound or the inhabitants themselves.

Therefore, the arrival of one of these creatures was rather unexpected. What was more, the dwarf in question was alive! Outrageous! Not quite, of course, since there was no way for living beings into the Halls of Mandos. But he had evidently come before his time, if one had to look at his destined path. Was it possible that he’d lost his way? Námo thought that he should probably take his visible form and send the visitor back…

The dwarf looked around and then slowly walked along the perimeter of the Hall with his axe in hand. Having checked everything, he stopped by one of the pillars near the entrance, put his belongings on the ground and started to settle down without haste. His movements were of precise accuracy, his look calm and sure. No, people like this didn’t lose their way, they came out exactly where they wanted to be. Having arrived before his time this dwarf probably had come to ask for one of his kin. And Námo could bet that the dwarf’s creator had been involved too.

Said dwarf took some logs out of his bag, build them up, added a handful of tinder and struck flint-and-steel. Sparks flew and almost immediately thin white smoke began to rise up. Fire! Here, in Mandos! If Námo was breathing, he would have choked in indignation. No, he wouldn’t talk to this creature. The dwarf would wander around for a day of two, and then he would realize that he couldn’t do anything and leave. Having made the decision, Námo got back to his previous occupation. What he forgot, was that dwarves don’t ever give up, or, more likely, are unaware that such a thing even exists.

Varda had lit the stars in the sky instead of the sun more than a dozen of times, and still the dwarf showed no intention to go away. During the day he usually went off to search through the numerous halls and passages, and more than once Námo sensed outrage from elven fëar caused by the unheard disturbance. By nightfall the Dwarf came back to the Throne Hall, started the fire and sat down, his back to the pillar, looking at the dancing flames and sipping something from his capacious flask. Námo wondered what he would do when he ran out of wood. Soon enough he got an answer.

It started with a strange sound somewhere in the halls further away: it seemed that someone was using an axe to chop something. The dwarf returned after his useless wanderings and threw some pieces of wood by his bedroll. Námo watched it closer and recognized the familiar texture of the chairs from the Hall of Court. The dwarf put away the back and two legs, easily broke apart the rest and started building the fire.

Once Námo somehow recovered from initial shock, there was one more challenge: the dwarf made himself comfortable at his usual spot near the fire, took the whetstone from his bag, and having placed his axe on his knees, began to sharpen the blade. _Screech!_ The sharp vibrating sound reached Námo’s mind causing him almost physical pain. The dwarf was moving his hand with the whet stone evenly, as if following the rhythm of some inaudible tune. _Screeech! Screeeech!_ The bloody rattling noise reverberated from the resonant vaults and came back twice as loud, turning into a horrible torture. By the will of Eru, it was impossible to bear!

Finally the terrible noise stopped. Námo couldn’t remember when the last time was that he had rejoiced so much in the blessed silence of his Halls. The dwarf tilted his axe a little, inspecting the blade, frowned, spat on the whetstone and raised his hand… _Screeeeeeeeech!_

Námo couldn’t stand it anymore. He made himself visible.

“Who are you and what do you want here?”

The dwarf didn’t seem surprised in the slightest, as if he had been waiting for this. He set the whetstone aside, walked up to the Throne without haste and gave Námo a curt bow, always keeping his eyes fixed on him.

“Dwalin, son of Fundin. At your service, my Lord.”

Námo smirked to himself. Eru spare him of such servants!

“What brought you to Mandos, Dwalin, son of Fundin?”

“I came for the heirs of Durin’s line, gone before their time.”

“Such was their fate.”

The dwarf glared at him from under his bushy eyebrows.

“The whole branch was broken! Wasn’t it enough that fate had been haunting our people for years?!”

Námo tried to remember all he knew about the recent happenings in the life of Aulë’s creations.

“The line of Durin is safe. Its other branch is strong and sound. New kings will come from it.”

The dwarf frowned and looked at Námo defiantly.

“If you got your arm cut off would you not bewail it, though the other one was stil strong and deft?”

Námo unwittingly looked down at the dwarf’s tattooed fingers, still clenched around the handle of the axe. If you got your arm cut… What?! For Vala it was ridiculous to fear the Dwarf, but this was going too far!

“I have no power over the destiny of Aulë’s creations. Ask him, if you must.”

“I asked him, and he granted my request.” The dwarf calmly met Námo’s gaze. “Mahal send me to you as the Lord of these Halls.”

Námo sighed. He had showed weakness _once_ , and now everyone considered it their right to ask him to break the principle order of things.

“I have to refuse your request, Dwalin, son of Fundin. Fëa of mortals can’t leave the Halls and return to the world of the living.”

The dwarf lifted his chin stubbornly.  
“It happened once.”

Námo cursed silently. He knew it would come to his. He shouldn’t have asked Manwë then. But the song had been of such unutterable beauty…

“It was a special case.”

“Aye, the Elves are always very _special_ to Valar. One song is enough to have it their way.”

Námo gnashed his teeth. What as this dwarf thinking? He clenched his fingers around the arms of his throne.

“Lúthien’s singing could rival the Music of the Ainur in its harmony!”

The dwarf folded him arms and lifted his head, grinning unabashedly. He somehow managed to look down at Námo even from his not so great height.

“I’ve heard the Elves singing. It’s like overly sweet syrup’s poured into one’s ears till one feels sugar on his tongue.” He spat pointedly on the ground.

“I can take it you can do better.” Námo let sarcasm creep into his voice.

The dwarf snorted, tried to reach for something behind his back, then frowned and scratched his bald head thoughtfully.

“I forgot my fiddle. Wait!”

He turned back and strode towards the entrance.

Námo looked at him as he went through the portal and couldn’t believe that it had ended so easily. He had expected more stubbornness from the thick-skulled dwarves: objections, protests even. But he wasn’t going to regret that it hadn’t come to that.

The dwarf didn’t return the next day or the day after that. In fact Námo hadn’t seen him for more than two weeks.

He wouldn’t admit it even to himself, but sometimes, looking at the remains of the fire he felt like he’d gotten used to the dwarf’s presence in the corner by the entrance and his loud walking through the Halls. Námo was considering giving the belongings the dwarf had forgotten here to his kin when he heard familiar heavy steps at the Main Gates.

The dwarf settled down on his bedroll as though he had left only yesterday and put some slightly curved pieces of wood on the ground. If one looked more closely, they seemed to be rough work pieces for a future musical instrument, and a rather unusual instrument at that. While muttering into his beard that “there’s nothing nearly worth anything in all of bloody Valinor” the dwarf untied the bag on his belt and brought out a pile of twisted threads that looked suspiciously like dried sheep guts.

The dwarf spent several days joining the pieces and tuning the strings. From time to time he pulled at one or another and Námo couldn’t help but flinch at the acute vibrating sound that ran round the Hall, reverberating from the numerous pillars. Finally he was done. The dwarf approached the throne, smirked contentedly and rested his instrument on the crook of his elbow.

“There.”

Only then did Námo realize what he had gotten himself into.

The dwarf raised his hand with the bow and touched the strings. It was nothing like the elves’ singing. It wasn’t even like anything else Námo had ever heard before. Dwarven music was like the dwarves themselves: heavy, forceful, vigorous like the fire in the furnace, going wild inside thick stone walls. And for the first time Námo discerned in this furious tumult echoes of bitterness, of rough, greedy longing for all that Dwarves consider their own, and willingness to fight for it till the end. If he could he would have stopped it right there and then and never heard the sound again.

Then the Dwarf took a deep breath and started singing. In his mind Námo called down all known curses upon the zealous Smith, who had created those unbearable beings. Eru knew, the last time he’d heard something like this had been when Melkor had tried to twist Arda’s theme! The dwarf’s voice reminded him both of the screeching of unoiled wheels of a wagon and the croak of a hungry eagle, not that he would ever mention it to Manwë. Reverberating through the Throne Hall, the sounds were drilling into his ears like the red-hot nails and there was no way to prevent it. Námo tried to focus on the words, but managed to decipher only few phrases about mighty steel-clad warriors fighting with fire monsters - apparently it was the Battle against Morgoth that the dwarven clans had taken part in.

The last chord faded into the air and the dwarf lowered the bow. Námo let out a sigh of relief, but it turned out his joy was premature. The dwarf continued his singing. This time it was the story of the foundation of an underground dwarven kingdom – Khazad-Dum. Having remembered the long history of Aulë’s creations, Námo could barely stifle a moan: the concert might last for several days. He waited for the end of the next part and raised his hand:

“Enough! I’ve heard you, Dwalin, son of Fundin. Here’s my word: you are allowed to go back to the world of living with the one, for whom you have come. Now, tell their name.”

“Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Fíli and Kíli, sons…”

“Wait!” Námo frowned. “I said, you may take only one fëa.”

The dwarf raised his eyebrows.

“I know other songs.”

Námo shuddered internally.

“Have it your way. Take them and leave.”

The dwarf bowed and walked towards the Main Gates.

“And don’t come back, at least for a century or two,” whispered Námo under his breath, unaware of how he had just changed the dwarf’s destiny.

 

***

“We turn left here.”

“No, we turn right.”

Thorin narrowed his eyes in irritation.

“Do you think, I don’t remember the way?”

“Do you really wish me to say what I think?”

Not listening to Thorin’s swearing, Dwalin smirked, raised his fiddle and walked to the right passage, stroking the strings with his bow:

_“Bring another barrel here!_   
_Bring it here! Bring it here!_   
_Fill your tankards, drink some beer!_   
_Drink your beer! Drink your beer!”_

Fíli and Kíli grinned at each other and followed him, striking in unison:

_“And ale! And grog! And wine!  
Bottoms up, brothers of mine!”_

Thorin winced and put his hands over ears, falling in behind them.


End file.
